


he got more than he gave (and he wanted what he got)

by Esteliel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bite marks, Cat Dicks, Cat/Human Hybrids, Hate Sex, M/M, Size Kink, Yuleporn, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How often exactly do you fuck your enemies in your own bedroom?” Hamilton asked, and then Jefferson laughed, low and self-satisfied and so damn <i>pleased</i> with himself that Hamilton would have hissed if he were a cat. Which he wasn't. OK, maybe he had hissed a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he got more than he gave (and he wanted what he got)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Jefferson tilted his head towards Madison, the sun choosing that exact moment to send in a ray of sunshine through the window that set the buttons on Jefferson's stupid purple coat to gleaming, and Hamilton clenched his teeth to stem the rise of annoyance while Jefferson's tail swished back and forth in obvious self-satisfaction.

It hadn't even really been a concession he had made, Hamilton told himself. Really. Jefferson had no idea what his plans were in the long run—Jefferson was not equipped to think that far ahead, that was painfully obvious, and became more obvious every day, and so there was no reason at all he should be annoyed by it, and yet—

“Hey.” 

Shit. When had Jefferson sneaked up on him?

Hamilton straightened, doing his best to ignore the way Jefferson's tail curled around his legs for a moment. The stripes gleamed in the sunlight, burnished bronze and almost-black, and Hamilton noted with annoyance that once more, he had become distracted by the hypnotizing swooshing of his tail.

Damn the man and his tail. And his purple coat.

“Hey. You look like you're in need of a drink.” Jefferson smirked, in that lazy, cat-like way of his while his ears flicked forward, and Hamilton found himself seething again for no other reason than that this man was probably the most annoying man to ever walk the earth. And that had nothing at all to do with the fact that Jefferson had just undone the work of hours of Hamilton's speeches with a few choice words. 

Compromise, he reminded himself again. So what if he couldn't win on his own. He'd play along. Let Jefferson believe he had the upper hand, even. The guy might have the looks, but he definitely didn't have the brains to prevail in the long run, and—

Where had that thought about his looks come from? Hamilton glared at the offending purple coat again. OK, so maybe the coat was hot. But that didn't mean that Jefferson was hot. Jefferson might have a hypnotizingly agile tail, and very soft looking ears, and he definitely knew how to wear his coat—but that didn't mean that he thought that Jefferson was hot. All it meant was—

“Cat got your tongue?”

Someone, somewhere, laughed in the background while Jefferson smirked. Before Hamilton could come up with an answer, he found Jefferson's arm winding around his shoulder, the tail curling around his legs, and—damn. Either the man was very forward, or very, very certain that he'd just won some grand victory.

No, definitely the latter. Hamilton studied the way Jefferson's eyes gleamed, sharp with the pleasure of the cat who had the mouse pinned under its paw. 

Did Jefferson really think he'd won a great victory? Or was there some deeper plan buried beneath this compromise that Hamilton had failed to see?

All of a sudden, something inside Hamilton fell into place as well, and he nearly shivered when Jefferson's smug face sprung into focus. Something inside him had shifted, and although the fall of creamy-white ruffles at Jefferson's throat still annoyed him for some reason he couldn't exactly pin down, because it definitely wasn't that he looked way too good in that coat, it was easier to push that annoyance to the side. Hadn't he always been good at attaining his goals? Do whatever it takes, he told himself again, and then gave Jefferson a slow smile.

“A drink would be nice. Unless all you've got is cream...”

Jefferson steered him towards a sideboard where a bottle of wine was already waiting in a cooler.

“Don't be ridiculous. Cream is... for other occasions.”

Had Jefferson just licked his lips like the proverbial cat? Hamilton accepted the offered glass of red—”Burgundy,” Jefferson said, “really, what do you take me for?”—and then they drank, Jefferson's tail still swishing back and forth in delight.

Something was definitely afoot. Hamilton couldn't even remember when the last time was he'd seen Jefferson so happy.

Damn the man.

“Not bad. I hope you have another bottle of this?” Hamilton held Jefferson's eyes as he raised the glass, tilted it and swallowed again and again, until he had emptied the glass in one go.

Was that the gleam of sweat on Jefferson's forehead?

Jefferson showed his teeth as he smiled in answer, and Hamilton found himself taking a closer look. Were those fangs? They did look a little sharper than normal. Well then. He thought about other things they said about men with tails, and wondered if that was also true.

“My friend, I brought back caskets of this Nuits St-Georges when I returned from France,” Jefferson said and finished off his own glass. He poured again for them both. His tail brushed lightly against the back of Hamilton's legs as it moved back and forth. Was that chance alone?

“To Virginian insight,” Hamilton said, a little ironically, although Jefferson once more looked more than pleased with himself as he raised his own.

“To compromise,” Jefferson said, then grimaced as though the word was distasteful to him. “No. No, that will not do. To—”

“The art of diplomacy,” Hamilton said and raised his own glass.

“Huh,” Jefferson said and stared at Hamilton over the rim of his glass. Did the man choose his wine for the way its shade complimented his coat?

Again Hamilton felt a familiar indignation arise in him at the way this thoughts kept intruding.

Never mind. Soon enough, he'd have Jefferson where he wanted him. God, he hated him. Where did he even find that particular shade of velvet? Where did he—

“At last something we agree on. That's new. To diplomacy, then!” Jefferson raised his glass and drank deeply, emptying the glass with ostentatious disregard for the expensive vintage. His eyes gleamed, his ears were pricked forward, and as much as he might tease, Hamilton was too aware of the way Jefferson's tail kept coming back to brush his legs.

Oh, he knew what Jefferson wanted. And Jefferson probably knew that he knew. But what Jefferson didn't know was that Hamilton would gladly give him what he wanted, for reasons that weren't at all what he might think.

Not because he wanted him. Not because of diplomacy, or politics, or to trick him.

“God, I hate you,” he muttered when they stumbled into Jefferson's bedroom an hour and three bottles of wine later, and Jefferson gave him a delighted grin.

“Not as much as I hate you.” 

Hamilton found his hands grabbing that stupid coat. He used his grip to press Jefferson against the wall and attack him with his mouth and then—

Ok, maybe that wasn't biting him, maybe he was kissing Thomas Jefferson, pushing his tongue as far down the man's throat as was physically possible while Jefferson moaned obscenely into the kiss, his hands scratching at his back.

“I really hate you the most,” Hamilton said a moment later. He was still panting, glaring at Jefferson while he licked his swollen lip which was still smarting from the not very tender bite. Jefferson grinned, looking smug and self-satisfied as he stretched against the wall, his tail coming up to curl teasingly around Hamilton's waist.

“No, you don't,” Jefferson purred, eyes half-shut with pleasure as he drew Hamilton close to attack his mouth once more. Someone was purring, Hamilton realized distantly long moments later, or groaning. Or—

With consternation he realized that he was rubbing himself against what had to be Jefferson's erect dick.

“I really, really do,” he said, teeth gritted, and Jefferson half-laughed, half-moaned.

“Prove it.”

With a groan, he shoved Jefferson against the wall and attacked his lips again, the kiss more bite than anything else—and then he took hold of his shirt and undid button after button.

“Oops,” he said, not sorry at all when a button tore free and bounced away. Jefferson's tail lashed against his legs.

“Have a care!” Jefferson's voice had darkened into a little growl, and Hamilton raised a brow.

“Or—what?” He dropped to his knees, and whatever Jefferson had been about to say was silenced when he bit at his dick through the fabric of his pants. He was a little more careful now—but only a little, gratified by the way Jefferson twisted beneath his hands, simultaneously cursing and moaning.

“ _This_ is how much I hate you.” He licked at where he felt the head of Jefferson's cock beneath the stretched fabric. Jefferson's cock jerked against his tongue, and Hamilton savored the way his tail came to curl beseechingly around his waist. Then he did it again, and again, until the purple breeches were dark from his spit and Jefferson moaned, his hands in his hair to hold him in place.

Once more Hamilton fastened his open mouth against the bulge, exhaled hot air against the wet cloth and then messily sucked at it until Jefferson arched against him, the sound he made nearly pained.

“I win.” Hamilton looked up at Jefferson in contentment when he drew back. Jefferson was straining against his breeches, fully engorged beneath the soaked breeches, and Hamilton drew a finger up the length, then down again. “So. Diplomacy.”

With a soft hiss, Jefferson pushed himself away from the wall. His tail quivered, his ears flattened, and still Hamilton stared up at him, unafraid. The man looked as if he was about to pounce—but he was also achingly hard, and from Hamilton's hands and mouth. And that, Hamilton thought smugly, was something he wouldn't let him forget.

“Diplomacy.” Jefferson spoke the word slowly, savoring it on his tongue as he took a step forward and Hamilton took a step back, stalking him through the length of the room. No—he was _allowing_ himself to be stalked, Hamilton reminded himself. There was a difference. And they were doing exactly what he had wanted. At least, he thought that this had been his original plan. It was a little hard to think after three bottles of wine and that damn purple coat right in his face and the way Jefferson moved, swaggering with that confidence of the cat which had the mouse driven into the corner...

He shook his head to clear it, but that was when his legs bumped against the bed. A moment later, Jefferson had pounced, and Hamilton found himself on the bed, blinking up at a purring Jefferson who took great delight in slowly ripping open his shirt so that one button popped off after the other.

“If you were a diplomat, my dear Secretary of Treasury,” Jefferson murmured and then leaned down, biting at a nipple until Hamilton felt his body arch upwards into the sensation, “then you'd learn to think before you speak.”

“ _Smile more_ ,” Hamilton said, and then gasped again when a hot, rough tongue rasped across his aching nipple. “I know all about diplomacy. I just—don't stop now!”

Jefferson smirked down at him, his ears playfully flicked forward. “You talk and you talk and you talk,” he mocked, “and then you talk some _more_ , and you forget that every action leads to a—”

He pushed down his wet pants at last, and Hamilton stared at where his cock jutted forward.

“Reaction,” Jefferson finished.

Hamilton blinked. “Wow,” he said at last. “Uh.”

Jefferson's smirk widened as he crawled forward. “Speechless? That is a first.”

“I mean—I know what they say about men with tails, you know. And I've always thought it sounded intriguing, but also like it would defeat the purpose? I mean, look at you, who would—why would anyone—”

“You're intrigued? Now _I'm_ intrigued!” Jefferson said and bent down to lick over a sore nipple again until Hamilton stopped talking and clenched his fingers in his hair with a hiss.

“It's just, uh.... “

“Spiky. Spiky is the word you're looking for.”

“And enormous.”

“Why, thank you!” Jefferson gave him another self-satisfied smirk, and Hamilton would have cursed himself if there hadn't still be an enormous and very much spiky dick pressed against his thigh.

“Too scared now to put your words into action?”

Jefferson's tail swished back and forth in obvious pleasure even as Hamilton bristled.

“I'm not afraid of you.”

“Hmm-mm.”

Hamilton arched again when a hand slipped into his breeches, feeling for him, and—damn, there was no denying it. He was hard, and Jefferson's hand grasping him tightly felt much better than it had any right to feel. Another groan escaped as Jefferson stroked him lazily.

“Now, I'm going to tell you how diplomacy is going to work. You—”

“You're not going to tell me anything!” Hamilton was bristling again, and then, before Jefferson had the chance to come up with yet another rebuttal or another of those damn smirks, Hamilton's hands were pushing down his own pants.

Suddenly they were skin to skin, his own cock dragging over Jefferson's skin, already slick at the tip from the droplets that kept welling up. He exhaled through clenched teeth when Jefferson's hand wrapped around him again; when a thumb teased at the head of his cock, a groan broke free from his throat after all.

“What was that?” Jefferson's tail vibrated with pleasure as Hamilton stared up at him from slitted eyes.

“I really hate you a lot.” He groaned again as he pushed into Jefferson's fist.

“How much?” Jefferson smirked against his lips.

Hamilton moaned and bit at them until they opened and he could slide his tongue inside. His hands moved back beneath the shirt until they were on Jefferson's back, and he pulled him closer and then used his nails, scratched downwards until Jefferson arched and hissed with pleasure, ears flat against his head.

“Fuck me already.” Hamilton scuttled back on the bed a little, panting and wild-eyed. He'd show Jefferson exactly how much he hated him. He'd show him how much he—

“Oh...” He couldn't help the long moan when Jefferson's fingers breached him, two fingers sliding inside easily—and trust the man to keep some salve ready in his nightstand just for such a thing.

“How often exactly do you fuck your enemies in your own bedroom?” Hamilton asked, and then Jefferson laughed, low and self-satisfied and so damn _pleased_ with himself that Hamilton would have hissed if he were a cat. Which he wasn't. OK, maybe he had hissed a little.

“That is so cute,” Jefferson drawled. In answer, Hamilton drew him down on top of himself because so far experience had shown that this was the only reliable way of keeping him silent.

“Now be a dear and shut up. And turn around.” Hamilton got a slap to his behind for his efforts, which would have led to another angry rebuttal, if not for the sensation of Jefferson's prick against his hole. Now he had to swallow a little, suddenly feeling a lot more sober when he remembered the spikes he had seen. How did that even...

“Oh,” he moaned when Jefferson slid inside, gratified to feel Jefferson pant against his neck, too overcome for once to gloat. That felt good. Really, really good, and the spikes didn't really do anything, they just—

Jefferson pulled back a little only to thrust back in. Hamilton arched his back, his knees about to give out all of a sudden as the little spikes rubbed over just the right spot.

The pleasure of it was electric, sizzling through his nerves. His fingers clenched around the sheet as his legs slid apart, his entire body voicelessly begging for more of the sensation. And then there was a touch, Jefferson's thumb rubbing at where his hole stretched wide around his prick. An undignified sound escaped him when the finger continued to tease at the rim before it slowly slid inside as well.

This time, his hands did give out, and the embarrassing, high moan that escaped him was muffled by the pillow as he came to rest on his shoulders instead. The angle was even better like this. He whined when Jefferson gave another shallow thrust. The stretch of it was so good. The stretch and the way his body gave way around him, the way Jefferson filled him: thick and hot and massaging him painfully with those protrusions he had seen, spiky knobs that right now rubbed past a place that made his vision go white with pleasure every time Jefferson shifted.

“Hate you... so much,” he gasped, just to make sure Jefferson wouldn't forget as his back arched and he worked himself back deeper onto his dick.

“How much?” Jefferson's breathing sounded just as labored as his own. Jefferson was bent over him now, panting hot air against his neck as his hips lazily rolled against his own.

“More than anything.” Hamilton groaned and pushed back against Jefferson again, a sharp cry escaping when Jefferson's finger inside him twisted and turned and then mercilessly rubbed over the spot his spikes had attacked. “Oh God! Don't stop!”

Again Jefferson's hips came forward, and again, the rhythm no longer lazy and slow. Hamilton made a disappointed sound as Jefferson's finger slid out—but then he thrust back inside with enough force to make the bed rock. Hamilton clawed at the sheets while Jefferson kept fucking him, arching his back and moaning as though he were a cat in heat. Jefferson's mouth was on his neck, wet and hot as he sucked on his skin. Then Jefferson was trying to talk—gloating again, Hamilton thought even through the haze of need. When he pushed back forcefully, Jefferson's prick slid so deep inside that another spark of unbearably pleasure shot up his spine and made him arch. Whatever Jefferson had to say turned into garbled nonsense as his teeth scraped across Hamilton's skin instead.

 _Oh!_ And then he bit. Hamilton had heard about that too. It had seemed little more than a curious piece of trivia at the time—but now, with that heavy prick filling him, with sharp teeth taking hold of a fold of skin and _biting down_ until the pain hit him sharp and sweet...

He bucked against Jefferson and trembled, pleasure rushing through him with the force of a storm. He felt his own release splash wet against his stomach even as Jefferson's teeth held him tightly caught, his prick throbbing inside him as he spent himself. The sensation made Hamilton moan again, exhausted and overcome. 

For long moments, he listened to his heartbeat and the sound of Jefferson's labored breathing. His body ached, sore from how the overcharge of pleasure had made him strain. He exhaled into the pillow, then tentatively began to straighten—only for Jefferson to make a soft sound suspiciously close to a growl while a hand on the small of his back held him still.

"What's wrong with you?" Hamilton asked irritably. His hair was damp with sweat and hung into his eyes. His body ached as though he'd taken a battering—well, he had, in a way. And it had been worth it, he told himself, even though it had meant an evening in the company of this insufferable—

“What's wrong with _me_? What's wrong with _you_ , dear Secretary of the Treasury, have you no sense? You'll end up hurting yourself. And I have no intention at all to explain that to a doctor. Don't move until we are done!”

"What do you mean? We are done!" With a hiss of his own, Hamilton straightened. Jefferson was still inside him, filling him in a way that was mostly uncomfortable now, though a part of him couldn't help but remember the way Jefferson had stretched him even more.

God. That insufferable bastard.

"Will you hold still! Stop wriggling like a kitten!"

Jefferson hissed again, and then Hamilton felt his teeth scrape against his shoulder as if in warning. The spot where Jefferson had bit him was still sore, and dimly, he wondered if Jefferson had drawn blood, and how he was going to explain that to Eliza. _The Secretary of State attacked me and bit me during a Congress debate, but although he won that round, he lost the fight, my dear?_

Ha! Unlikely.

"For God's sake, stop wriggling," Jefferson growled against his skin, his hands sliding down to his hips. Hamilton had just had about enough now of his complaining and tried to move away—only to instantly freeze with a pained yelp.

"There! See! Now you've done it! What did I say?"

"Ow!" Hamilton said, perhaps not very eloquently. But then, this was hardly a moment for grand speeches. "Are you—are you stuck?"

Jefferson huffed. "You really don't know anything. Just hold still until I'm soft. Otherwise the spikes _will _hurt going out."__

__With a disgusted sound, Hamilton froze, although he couldn't help but curiously reach back and—_ _

__"The spikes are inside," Jefferson informed him haughtily, although to his delight Hamilton could hear the words become more breathless as his fingers brushed along the base of his prick._ _

__God. Hard and thick and buried to the hilt inside him, spikes and all. It should make him feel sick. Instead, it sent another thrill through him. Jefferson might slouch and mock as much as he was wont to during the next session, but whenever he looked at him, Hamilton would know just how much Jefferson had wanted him._ _

__"Well, can't we hurry this up! This is getting rather boring."_ _

__Jefferson snorted, but then Hamilton's questioning fingers brushed his balls, still tightly drawn up, and as he stroked them, he thought he felt a new pulse of heat inside him._ _

__"You damn little—" Jefferson's words sounded strangled, and now Hamilton smirked as he tightened around Jefferson's prick, brushing his thumb over those warm balls again until he felt what was definitely Jefferson's cock twitching inside him, and Jefferson gasping an overwhelmed curse against his skin._ _

__"Stop that!"_ _

__"Make me!"_ _

__Hamilton kept laughing when Jefferson spent the next minute alternatively cursing him and threatening him with anything from duels to over-night Congress debates._ _

__Of course, he should have known better than to underestimate Jefferson, because after a few minutes of this delightful game, Jefferson raked his nails down his back again to make him arch, and then rubbed the pad of his thumb around the stretched rim of his hole until Hamilton was panting into the pillow with barely contained desire._ _

__"Panting for it," Jefferson drawled. "As I've always said. Even my cock isn't enough. What does it take to satisfy you, I wonder? Is this enough?" Once more, one of his fingers slid inside along his prick, and Hamilton's knees started trembling again as a whine escaped him._ _

__"Mmm. So good when you finally shut up. Now keep quiet, or I'll stop doing this!"_ _

__"Make me!" Hamilton panted again, and then made another embarrassing sound as the finger twisted and prodded until pleasure licked red-hot up his spine. The sensation made him arch for more, moaning deliriously as Jefferson gripped his hip with his other hand, holding him in place with enough force that Hamilton thought he'd leave bruises. But he couldn't complain about that, had lost the ability to form words when there was the teasing brush of another finger. Then came the sweet agony of the stretch as Jefferson pushed that finger inside as well, crooking it to put pressure with both fingertips onto where it made Hamilton buck up and pant and spread his legs wider and wider until the tendons of his thighs ached and the muscles trembled with exhaustion from the strain._ _

__“God damn,” Jefferson said with rare admiration. “Do you think you can take my cock and my entire hand? I'd sure love to see you try...”_ _

__Hamilton groaned, sweat running down his back as his body convulsed some more at Jefferson's insistent prodding. Another splash of his seed hit his stomach and his moan was nearly pained._ _

__“Of course, right now you probably couldn't. You look exhausted,” Jefferson purred, and—nearly delirious and out of his mind from the onslaught of pleasure—Hamilton turned his head and gasped weakly, “You don't have anything I couldn't take.”_ _

__“Hmm.” The sound Jefferson made was smug enough that Hamilton would have shaken him off in consternation—if his trembling limbs would have allowed such a thing. Instead he had no choice but to wait, his heart thumping painfully fast in his chest as Jefferson pulled his fingers out. Their absence was an ache as well, and Hamilton stifled his exhausted groan in the pillow before he could demand them back. Jefferson's hands were on his thighs now, stroking slowly, admiringly, and then his hot breath was back on his neck, and a tongue followed aching lines that had to be the bite mark._ _

__It took a long while until Jefferson moved. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hamilton couldn't help but feel that withdrawing should be possible now—but he was too exhausted to speak, his throat tight and rough, and all his muscles aching from the strain. How often had he come? He couldn't even remember. But in the end, when Jefferson slipped out of him, soft at last and the spikes harmless once more, they had somehow collapsed onto the bed in a sweaty tangle together, and Jefferson was licking the bite mark rapturously with his rasping tongue, purring louder than Hamilton had ever heard before._ _

__He already looked forward to how he could use that against him in future cabinet meetings. After all, purr rhymed with Burr._ _


End file.
